


It's Ergonomic

by bughnrahk



Series: Liberator [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blatant misuse of Connor's reconstruction software, Bottom Hank, Connor has a dick, Established Relationship, Fingering, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Smut, Top Connor, he just sometimes chooses not to use it, with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bughnrahk/pseuds/bughnrahk
Summary: Connor brings home an ergonomic sex wedge. Hank isn't having it. (Until he is.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much entirely inspired by https://twocopshavingsex.tumblr.com/
> 
> Please forgive me for this trash.

  


The house is warm enough that Sumo insists on drooling a puddle onto the lino, refusing to clamber up on the couch when Hank pats the empty cushions next to him. Hank can't blame him, though. He's similarly sprawled, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table. (Mostly clean, but he'd ordered take-out and the empty containers were still there. Connor would know what Hank had eaten whether or not he cleaned them up, so no need to bother. He  _had_ stuck to drinking water, rather than the couple beers nestled in the back of the fridge. Too damned warm for anything else.)

Sumo whines pitifully. Hank cranes his neck to see him eyeing the door like it’s personally offended him.

“He’ll get home when he gets home,” Hank settles back,” Chill.”

It's almost seven o'clock and Connor's been gone since morning. Hank's not worried. Connor's his own man. He doesn't live in Hank's pocket. He's got a tentative friendship with those Jericho androids and likes spending time with the RK900 units the DPD's hired on. Connor likes to run errands. He likes to go out and see things. Experience the city. Sometimes Hank tags along, but Hank likes to stay home, comfortable in his solitude. T-shirt, boxers, take-out, and television.

It's a good way to spend a hot Sunday evening.

The door clicks open.

Hank turns his head to watch Connor bustle in, struggling with a massive package he's got balanced on his arms. Sumo lets out a boof from his spot on the floor but can't muster up the energy to greet him, for all his whining. Connor shoots Hank a brilliant smile around the box and kicks the door shut behind him.

"You're home late," Hank grunts and rips his attention from the box. He stares at the television instead. WNBA game. A good one. But suddenly Hank's a lot less interested in it.

"I had a good time with Josh. He's very insightful." Connor sweeps across the room into the kitchen.

Hank watches him from the corner of his eye but doesn't turn. Connor sets the package down on the table, nudging some old dishes out of the way to make room. Hank's better at keeping the kitchen tidy. Better, not perfect.

It's a big package. Maybe three feet long. Deep and wide. Plain brown cardboard with no marks at all to let Hank know what the fuck his partner just brought into their house. He forces his attention back to the game. Connor rustles around the kitchen. The fridge doors opens and shuts. Connor's shoes tap across the floor until he's at Hank's side, hip propped against the arm of the sofa. There's a pop and a hiss and Connor presses a cold beer into Hank's hand.

Hank stares dumbly down at it.

Connor didn't  _bring_ Hank beers. His distaste for Hank's relationship with alcohol had snapped a few threads between them. Hank conceded (not quietly, not easily) not to keep whiskey in the house anymore. But there was always beer in the fridge. Connor never tried to throw it out, didn't put up a fight when Hank pulled one out of the fridge at the end of a long day, but he absolutely  _did not_ bring Hank beers for no damn reason.

But here one was. Perspiration sliding down the cool glass and numbing Hank's fingers.

The last time Connor had brought him a beer, Hank had crawled out of bed at the crack of dawn and leashed Sumo up for a sort-of-jog around the block. Connor was up and at 'em when Hank got back, curled up on the couch in one of Hank's too-big shirts and a smile that made Hank's heart ache. He'd uncurled his long legs, strode across the room before Hank had even taken his jacket off, and pulled him down for a searing kiss. And then, when the clock ticked noon and Hank went to reheat leftovers for lunch, Connor brought him a beer.

Hank hadn't done a damned thing all day. He'd slept in obnoxiously late and even though Connor left in the pre-dawn hours of the morning, the bastard always knew when Hank lazed around past noon. He'd probably installed some sort of monitoring device right under Hank's skin. A constant stream of Hank's BPM, Hank's cortisol levels, Hank's BAC.

Hank hadn't done anything to deserve this beer. Which meant...

Hank twisted around to stare at the package.

Connor followed his gaze, smile unwavering. "I got you something. I got  _us_ something."

"Connor," Hank's tone is low and warning.

Connor leans down and pecks a kiss to Hank's cheek, where the scruff of his beard meets his skin. He squeezes Hank's forearm and slips off into the kitchen. Hank watches him draw a knife out of the cutlery drawer and make quick work of the packing tape around the box. Hank can't take it anymore. He takes a swig of the beer - bittersweet, Persephone's pomegranate, the apple in the garden of Eden. It's poison to ease the sting of whatever's inside that box. He fucking  _knows it_. Hank slogs to his feet and follows Connor into the kitchen.

Connor opens the box slowly. Carefully. He pulls out reams of plastic sheet and crumpled paper. Hank spots something red. Connor reaches inside the box and tugs. Whatever's inside is packed tight. Hank doesn't help. He frowns with every inch of his face, forehead wrinkled, eyebrows drawn tight, nose wedged up in dismay.

Connor finally draws the thing out. It looks like a cushion, maybe. Or the padding they used to put down in school gymnasiums to let kids fling themselves around on. It's two triangles wedged together, one significantly larger than the other, made of some sort of  ultra soft microfiber that's got Hank itching to touch it. Blocky black numbers run up the side of the largest wedge, but they don't mean shit to Hank.

Finally, Connor reaches into the bottom of the box and pulls out a pamphlet. Hank leans over to read it.

The cover is glossy black. The red cushion thing takes up the bottom half and a nubile young woman lounges over top of it, her head thrown back and legs in the air.

Hank finally gets it.

He sets the beer down with an angry clank.

"No fucking way, Connor."

"It's an ergonomic sex wedge." Connor flips through the pamphlet, like the fucker hasn't hoovered up every crumb of information he could get before he bought the thing.

"I know what it is, Connor, I can read. The answer is  _no_."

The wrinkles on Connor's brow become more pronounced as he attempts to hide a frown. The effect was botched by the spinning yellow gleam of his LED. "I don't understand. It wasn't expensive. The benefits are numerous."

"No." Hank grabs his beer and retreats down the hallway. He doesn't know what his plan is. Lock himself in the bedroom? The bathroom? Run away before his embarrassment can get the better of him, wherever the hell he can.

"It reduces strain on joints. Sometimes you complain about stiffness after lov- after having sex." Connor trails after him. "Using the sex wedge would help reduce discomfort.”  

"No."

"The wedge aids in achieving new positions for optimal satisfaction." Christ, he sounds like a damned infomercial..

"Still no, Connor."

"And deeper penetration."

That has Hank pausing. Stopping so suddenly his beer sloshes in the bottle. Hank turns, deliberate and slow, eyebrows scrunched together.

Connor gives him a perky smile. His LED cycles back to blue, steady and calm. Hank rakes his eyes up and down his lean form. He's standing loose, languid. Something that took him a long time to learn, but now he eases into it like it's natural. The bright red wedge is still visible on the edge of the kitchen table behind him. Hank frowns.

"I don't need a fucking sex wedge." Hank snorts and buries his frustration in a long swig of beer. "I'm fine."

Connor's expression softens. Something seems to click. He's a perceptive motherfucker, picking up tiny little clues Hank probably isn't aware of. Hank's shield of a grumpy exterior is no match for Connor's scrutiny. Connor steps up to him, slow and cautious like he's approaching a snarling wild cat. Hank doesn't care for that either. Connor's fingers are cool around Hank's wrist, almost as cool as the beer bottle.

"I don't think you need it, but I do think it would be fun." He's toe to toe with Hank now, chin tilted up to make up for those couple inches of height difference. "It also helps support the user so you don't have to hold yourself up."

Hank frowns harder," Are you calling me a pillow princess, Connor?" His neck is hot. He wants to make a run for it.

Connor's face twitches in a brilliant display of devilment. "I'd love for you to have the opportunity to let go and allow me to take care of you."

Hank huffs out a defeated sigh and eyes the damned thing on the table. He scratches his chest and turns away. "Connor..."

Connor's face falls, but it's such a tiny movement Hank wouldn't have caught it if he didn't know Connor better. The sight makes Hank's heart sting, but he sticks to his guns.

"It's a blow to the ego, alright? Bringing home something like that, telling me it's to help my back—"

Connor opens his mouth to interject. Hank jerks his hand up to stop him.

"I didn't really think of myself as  _old_ until you... with all your..." He gestures at Connor. His youth. Eternally thirty-something and puppy dog eyed. Skin perfectly flawless, perfectly flawed. Never gonna get a grey hair. Never gonna get a wrinkle. Never gonna have love handles or padding around his middle. "And then you bring this shit in here, telling me 'Here, Hank, I bought this contraption to help you out because your joints are fucked and your back can't take it when I pound you into the mattress.' Meanwhile you can just go steady for hours, no complaints. No harm done. You don't even break a goddamned sweat."

Connor cocks his head, lips pursed, “I'd be able to do that no matter what age I appeared to be. You're not old, Hank, but you are human."

Can't compete with that.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you." Connor eases a hand to Hank's shoulder, featherlight. "I should have asked before I bought the wedge."

"Yeah, you should have."

"But you would have said no," Connor wrinkles his nose, perturbed. LED whirling like he's caught in a paradox. I want this, Hank wants that. What's the optimal way to get this situation to flow the direction I want it to?

Hank snorts," Yeah. And what if I said to bring the damned thing back to the store?"

"You can't return opened product, Hank," Connor frowns.

Hank rolls his eyes. "You're a goddamned brat." He reaches for Connor anyway, hand at his waist, tugging him closer.

Connor nods and smooths his hands up Hank's arms, fingers running through the coarse grey hairs. Over Hank's shoulders, up to the crook of his neck where he feels Hank's jumping pulse point. He digs his fingers into Hank's beard and tugs him down. It stings, and Hank hisses, but Connor soothes the pain with a kiss, and presses all his smooth, lean lines against Hank's tired front. Hank slips an arm around the small of his back and huffs against Connor's lips.

"Can I make it up to you?" Connor pulls back just enough to look Hank in the eye.

"Does making it up to me involve getting me another beer?" He swishes the half-empty bottle near Connor's face, arching an eyebrow. He knows the answer, though.

Connor frowns in little twitches. The corner of his lip falling down. His eyebrows pinching together just enough to make a little wrinkle between them. "I'd prefer that it didn't."

Hank knows exactly what Connor would  _prefer_ to do.

The game is still going on in the background and Hank is clammy with sweat from the summer heat. There's a million things he could be doing, and a million other things he could ask Connor to do. Hank leans back against the hallway and finishes his beer much too quickly, trying to quell the heat in his face.

The thing is, Connor is pretty much always horny for Hank. Ready to go at the drop of a hat. It's massively overwhelming and definitely more than a little flattering. Knowing someone has that kind of reaction to him. The sex wedge might have been a blow to Hank's ego, but Connor's attention certainly isn't.

Hank sets the beer bottle on the floor (trouble for later) and curls his fingers around the nape of Connor's neck, drawing him in for a kiss. Connor smiles against his lips before deepening it, making it wet and dirty with a hot swipe of his tongue. He's eager (always) and his kisses are... interesting. Hank wouldn't call them great by regular standards. Connor swipes his tongue through Hank's mouth like he wants to taste everything all at once. Runs his tongue over Hank's teeth. Licks the inside of his cheeks. Connor pulls away with a sharp jerk, watching Hank take a deep breath, before rushing in again. It's like snorkeling in a storm—Hank gasps for air wherever he can. Connor has Hank's ability to hold his breath all mapped out and likes to push him right to the limit with their kisses, plundering Hank's mouth until he knows Hank's dizzy for oxygen.

It's not the most conventionally enjoyable kiss, but it's Connor in spades, so Hank fucking loves it.

Connor presses him back against the wall and slips a thigh between Hank's legs. And Hank... well, fuck it. He's half-hard already just from making out against the wall. Connor tangles his fingers in Hank's messy hair and tries to pull him closer, erase the last couple molecules between them. He moves his thigh against Hank's groin, humming his contentment into Hank's mouth as Hank's cock twitches over the attention.

Hank pulls back to catch his breath. "Alright. Alright. Not in the goddamned hallway."

Connor gives Hank all of two inches room to skirt away from him and head toward the bedroom. His fingers catch on the hem of Hank's t-shirt, sliding underneath to skate over Hank's sweltering skin, running through the hair on his belly. Hank grips his hand through the shirt and squeezes. They stumble into the bedroom together and Connor herds him toward the bed.

"We don't have to," says Connor, his voice vibrating against the back of Hank's neck. "If you're upset. I'm happy just to touch you."

He's always got to make it so damned hard, doesn't he? Being so soft about shit. It's too much. It's always too fucking much and it makes Hank want to run out the door and hide because he's not used to this amount of... intimacy. Whatever. Fuck.

Hank pulls Connor's hand out from under his shirt and drags it down to where his dick is tenting is sweatpants. Connor takes the hint. Squeezes. Hank's breath hitches. His eyes snap shut.  

"Alright." Connor kisses his shoulder. Mouths it. Hank knows he's tasting his sweat, analyzing. Cataloguing. Deciding from Hank's fucking hormones whether or not he's really into this.

He is. He fucking is. He just wishes Connor wouldn't make it so damned sweet and hazy.

Connor lets go of Hank's dick to toy with the hem of his shirt instead. "I'd like to take this off."

Connor never does it without asking. Hank knows he likes the way Hank looks, he's got a fascination with Hank's body hair, with the softness of Hank's belly and chest. He loves to trace the lines of Hank's tattoo with his fingers and tongue, worshipful about it. Reverent. Willing to lavish praise on Hank until Hank tells him to shut the fuck up and get on with it. Hank doesn't question that Connor likes to see him. It's just that... Hank knows what he used to look like (before, when he still cared) and he knows what he looks like now. It's a big contrast. Sometimes Hank cares.

Sometimes Hank doesn't give a fuck.

"Yeah, go ahead."

Connor strips Hank's shirt off before Hank can change his mind, tossing it on the floor with the rest of Hank's week old dirty laundry. Connor knocks his leg against Hank's ankle to unbalance him, sending Hank flummoxing over the bed. He catches himself on his forearms and shoots Connor a sneer under the curtain of his hair.

"You're a dick." Hank twists himself around and shimmies up the mattress.

Connor doesn't follow him. He threads his tie loose, then his jacket, and starts on his buttons, one by one, with deft fingers. He keeps his eyes on Hank, dark, heated. Unwavering. Hank feels a flush crawling up his neck. Connor's intensity is like sitting under an x-ray that wants to memorize the inside of your  _bones_. It's too much. Everything with Connor is always too damned much. Hank decides to do something about it. He shimmies his sweats down his thighs, revealing his half-hard cock, plump and curled against his stomach. Hank palms himself running his thumb over the head, feeling it thicken in his grip. Connor's eyes narrow. His unbuttoning becomes furiously quick.

Hank falls flat against the mattress and stares up at the ceiling. He shuffles the rest of the way out of his sweats and kicks them to the floor.

Connor makes a guttural noise and rips through the last of his buttons. His shirt drops the floor with a heavy fwump. The bed dips. Hank laughs, but doesn't look, wringing his hand slowly up his cock. An easy warm feeling crawls over his groin. He's not in any rush, just happy to lay back and feel before Connor decides to devour him. Connor looms over him and bats his hand away. Hank doesn't fight him. He trails the backs of his fingers up Connor's arms instead. Connor runs a little cooler than a human, but right now, in this heat? Fucking heaven.

Connor's thumb swipes over the head of Hank's cock, smearing precum, and then it's gone. Hank listens to the  _pop_ as Connor stuffs the digit in his mouth, tasting him. Analyzing him. Hank doesn't protest. No damned point, Connor wouldn't stop if he did. Connor groans around his own thumb like someone's sucking  _his_  cock, and the noise makes heat pulse low in Hank's groin. It's obscene.

"Connor," Hank breathes.

"I'm here." Connor flattens his palm over Hank's chest. "What do you want?"

"Don't be a shit." Hank pointedly does  _not_ squirm as Connor settles between his thighs, but he does snap his eyes open to leer at him. "You know what I want."

"I messed up with the sex wedge." Connor squishes himself between Hank's knees anyway, resting his palm on the meat of Hank's thigh. "I'd hate to guess incorrectly with this." There's a gleam in his eyes, and it's probably only by careful motor control that his face doesn't split in half with the shit-eating grin that's tugging at the corner of his lips.

Motherfucker.

"Just..." Hank fists his hair, grits his teeth. "Fuck me."

"You'll have to clarify, Hank." Connor gropes the meat of his thigh, massaging it. "Was that a random expletive, or—"

" _Or._ Yes,fuck me. Christ." Hank reaches blindly for the nightstand and wrenches the side drawer open with more force than necessary. A book thuds to the floor. Hank doesn't care. He digs around until he finds what he's looking for and chucks the bottle of lube in Connor's direction.

Connor catches it without looking, like the absolute bastard that he is.

Hank throws an arm over his eyes.

Connor spreads him open, hands urging at his thighs until he's happy with how far apart he's got Hank's legs. Hank leaves them the way Connor wants them.His heart stutters a beat, but Connor soothes his hands down Hank's legs. Slow and steady. The tension melts away and Hank settles back. Connor shifts away and Hank looks up to watch him stand and shuck off his pants, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He keeps his briefs on, and Hank doesn't question it.

"Pillow?" Connor asks, slipping back between Hank's knees.

"Right, yeah." Hank grabs one from the headboard and they stuff it under the small of his back together, elevating him a couple inches. More comfortable that way. Easier access for Connor.

Connor presses a kiss to the inside of Hank's leg as he pops the cap to the lube. "You're so handsome, Hank."

And the thing is? Despite Hank's own misgivings, Connor makes him  _feel_ handsome. Makes those 'don't give a fuck' days come easier and more often. Connor makes him want to start caring about his appearance again.

Connor nuzzles the juncture of his thigh, breathing deep. His LED is probably whirling a mile a minute, but Hank doesn't chance a peek. Connor's tongue snakes out over Hank's balls, and Hank bites back a yowl, jerking up the bed. One of Connor's hands curls around his hip to keep him in place as he lavishing attention over them. Not Hank's favorite thing. He's sensitive and it's a lot of  _too much_ but Connor keeps his touch light. Right on the edge of what Hank finds enjoyable.

Connor's fingers are slick, easing between Hank's legs and circling his hole. Hank lets out a low groan, grinding back. Connor presses a kiss to the base of Hank's cock before sliding the first finger in.

It's fucking perfect. Goddamned awesome every fucking time. Connor's fingers are long and slender, inhumanly smooth which should be weird, but it's really,  _really_ not. Sometimes Connor turns his skin off to finger Hank, and that's an entirely different experience too. Feels kind of like using a toy he can't control, but there's an electric undercurrent intensifying everything. Hank loves it when Connor does it, but he doesn't last long that way. And neither does Connor.

Connor keeps his skin on this time (and that's not a sentence Hank ever pictured himself thinking in bed); no interfacing with Hank's asshole tonight. His exploration is slow and lazy. It makes Hank burn up from his center, warmth bleeding out to every limb in gradual, throbbing waves. Connor drags his tongue down Hank's balls again, his inner thighs, then up high under his naval. Licking the salt off his skin.

Hank finally tears his arm away from his face to look.

Connor is staring at him. Unblinking. LED beating like a bee's wings. His expression is hyper-focused, flitting from Hank's face to his chest.

"Connor." Hank hates how rough his voice sounds.

Some of the intensity eases away with Connor's smile. He's still staring, and it's all  _love love love_ like he could drill it straight into Hank's core just by looking hard enough. He doesn't have to, though. Hank knows it's there. He feels it. He reaches for Connor's hand and Connor lets go of Hank's hip to thread their fingers together. It's cheesy as all hell. Hank flushes and tosses his other arm over his face again. Just holding on.

Connor slides another finger into him and Hank spreads his legs further without thinking about it. He wants. He  _wants_. And Connor wants to take his sweet time with it. Hank growls. Connor  _laughs_ , sweet and muffled against Hank's belly. He slides his fingers almost all the way out. Hank digs his heels against the cover and tries to chase them, but Connor keeps him steady. Won't let him. Fuck, fuck, fuck that damned little bastard.

"Connor." He grits his teeth.

Connor slides them back in, so soft and easy that it makes Hank feel like he's falling apart. It's electricity running up his spine. It's sinking into something warm. It's coming home after a hard day. It's—

~~Making love.~~

"Connor,  _come on_. Fuck me!"

Connor answers by kissing the head of his dick, leaking all over his belly. It twitches under the attention and Hank swallows a groan. Connor breathes a puff of air against his glans and Hank tenses all over, goosebumps prickling down his arms. Connor swallows him whole. Hank can't— He fucking—

"Jesus c-christ," he manages.

Connor hums in agreement and twists his fingers, searching and probing until—

" _Fuck!"_ Pleasure shoots through him, white hot, drawing him tight as a bowstring. He's white-knuckling Connor's hand now, but Connor doesn't try to pull away.

Connor just bobs his head and swallows. Nestles his nose in the hair around Hank's groin. Hank knows Connor doesn't need to breathe. Hank knows Connor might just decide to fucking stay like that while he fingers Hank open. Feeling, tasting every time Connor's fingers make Hank's pulse jump. Swallowing him whole, just to have him in his mouth. Just because he fucking can. It's a heady fucking idea—Connor's done it before, and it breaks Hank's brain every fucking time.

"Connor. Connor,  _c'mon_." Hank manages to wriggle one socked foot up against Connor's groin-

_Oh._

Hank moves his arm so he can prop himself up a little and look. "You didn't put your dick on."

Connor eases off his dick one slow inch at a time. He leaves it with a breathy sigh, swiping his tongue through the precum gathering at Hank's slit. Hank shivers. Connor, finally, turns his attention away from Hank's dick.  "I wasn't certain you'd be comfortable with the sex wedge. I didn't want to presume."

Hank snorts. "Sure, sure. You'll buy the damned thing without asking, but you don't want to  _presume_."

Connor answers by pressing a kiss to Hank's belly, and before Hank can protest the attention he twists his fingers, up and deep, and Hank's head snaps back against the pillow all the air punched out of his lungs. " _Fuck_."

Connor doesn't stop. He rolls the pads of his fingers against Hank's prostate and Hank's dick drools precum onto his stomach. Connor bends over him and licks it up. Hank curses, his hips bucking.

"Besides," says Connor, leaning back and finally drawing his fingers a half-inch out of Hank so Hank can fucking  _breathe_ again. "My dick is more for your benefit than mine."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Hank can't lift his head off the pillow. His sides heave.

Connor's fingers thrust lazily and Hank grits his teeth, hips rolling of their own accord, chasing for more. Deeper. Every once in a while Connor's fingers brush over that spot that makes Hank's legs quiver. Deliberate. Unpredictable. Hank is going to die.

"I have more tactile sensors in my fingers and mouth, than a dick I'm not fully compatible with. This," Connor twists his fingers again and Hank's back bows, "is for me."

"Oh fuck."

"I can put it on if you prefer."

"Jesus, Connor." Hank fists his own hair. "No, that's fine. I just... I want to make sure you're getting something out of this too."

Connor twists his wrist. Hank's mouth opens on a wet gasp.

"Well," Connor starts.

Hank doesn't like that tone. He does not like that fucking tone  _at all._ But Connor has gone back to scissoring his insides open and every stretch and pull is shooting molten sparks down Hank's spine. His tongue isn't cooperating. He grinds down on Connor's fingers, heels dug into the mattress. Connor extracts them and Hank almost chokes to keep himself from whining at the loss.

"If you want to prove you're not a... pillow princess?" He hesitates on the word, eyes narrowed. "You could always ride me." Connor's all of a sudden hovering over him, and there's a terrible glint in his eyes. " _Lieutenant._ "

Fuck.  _Fuck fuck fuck_. Hank hasn't forgotten that Connor insinuated he _wants_  Hank to be a fucking pillow princess. Lay back and let Connor take care of him, hand over the reigns and just let shit happen. Now Connor's looking at him with wide brown eyes and the corner of his lip kicked up in a smile. Hank knows this is a fucking trap, because Connor was programmed to read pressure points and ticks and know exactly what lever to pull to get the results he needs. Hank love-hates when that shit is directed at him. There's an ulterior motive. Hank just doesn't know what it is.

Connor reads the answer in his eyes and rolls onto his back, shifting against the pillows until he's comfortable. Ball's in Hank's court now. Hank turns to look at him. He's bathed in the weak glow of the bedside lamp and it softens all his edges. He's dark eyes and dark hair, every inch of him sculpted perfection. Soft and young and lean and everything Hank is  _not._ But Connor looks back at him with an intensity in his eyes that makes Hank burn up.

Hank pushes his hair out of his eyes and gets up on shaky knees. He throws a leg over Connor's waist and gropes for the bottle of lube.

Connor sets it aside and runs his hands up Hank's thighs instead.

"Hey—" Hank starts.

Connor reaches up to pull Hank down, threading his fingers through Hank's hair as he leans up to seam their lips together. It's a light, airy little kiss. Hank nuzzles against him, and Connor's face scrunches up at the feeling of his beard, a chuckle rumbling his chest. He tugs Hank closer and dips his tongue into Hank's mouth.

Connor pulls back, grips his ass and jerks him forward. "On my chest. I'd like to suck you off."

"Right," Hank pants. "Fuck."

"That's the idea."

Smarmy little bastard. Hank gives him a swat. Connor reaches up to drag his nail over Hank's nipple in retaliation. Hank... Hank knows he likes it, but it's one of those things he doesn't like to admit. Connor doesn't need him to say anything out loud, though. Connor can see it in him, on him. Read the way his pulse skips when Connor slides the pad of his thumb over the same nipple and Hank feels it like electricity. He doesn't have to say  _anything_. Connor's got him. Connor knows.

Hank feels himself go hot, so he pushes away Connor's hand and adjusts his position, shimmying up Connor's torso until his knees are bracketing Connor's ribs.

"I love the way you feel," says Connor, dragging the backs of his fingers down Hank's sides. "I love all of your reactions." He wets his lips, and there's so much in his eyes that Hank has to look away. He grabs for the bottle of lube instead and flips the cap open. Connor holds out his hand, helpfully, but Hank can still see the intensity in his eyes from his peripheral vision.

"And when I'm inside you," Connor continues, rolling the lube between his fingers," I love how many ways I can monitor your heartbeat."

"Fuck's sake, Connor." Hank shifts back. Connor grips his hip to steady him, and his fingers are pressing back against his entrance. Hank is already open, wet, so it takes nothing to rock back onto Connor's fingers.

Connor's eyes flutter. His LED blinks rapid blue.

Hank, for his part, groans low and deep as he sinks as far down as the position will allow.

Connor keeps his hand steady. Two fingers curled against his palm, middle and index finger extended. Unmoving. If he were a human, Hank would bet on his arm getting sore, held up like that. But Connor isn't. Won't get sore or tired. And, apparently, isn't planning on helping out at all.

Whatever.

Hank braces his arms against the headboard and rocks back, rolls his hips. It's obscene. He pulls forward and feels the tip of Connor's tongue swipe across the head of his cock. Hank's breath stutters.

"Keep going," says Connor. The words reverberate against Hank's cock.

Hank groans and sinks back. He picks up a rhythm, rocking back with an easy shift of his hips. Not a lot of movement, but it's enough. Slow and steady, grinding down so Connor's fingers hit all the right places. There's no burn from the stretch anymore, and Hank wants to ask for another finger. For more. His thighs are burning, his arms trembling. Connor doesn't twitch except to rub his lips against Hank's dick and tongue the head when Hank thrusts forward enough that Connor can reach.

"Connor," Hank growls. His hair is hanging limp and sweaty over his forehead.

Connor takes pity on him, withdraws his hand, and sinks back in with three fingers. A noise tears out of Hank, deep and guttural. He feels Connor squirm underneath him, his grip on Hank's hip tightening. Hank chances a glance at him. Connor's LED is spinning rapid blue-yellow, but his eyes are open, glued on Hank's face. There's no perspiration, no flush to his skin, but his body is thrumming. Connor drags him forward and Hank's cock disappears between his lips. Hank throws his head back with a shout. Connor's fingers twist and thrust and Hank can't keep up with it anymore. He's moving in sad little jerks trying to press for more, but Connor doesn't seem to mind. He picks up the slack, driving in and out of Hank. There's a wet squelch of lube and Hank can feel it sliding down his thighs. It's fucking embarrassing as all hell but he can't  _stop_.

"Connor, I need—"

Connor swathes his tongue over Hank's slit and hums his pleasure around him.

"Connor,  _fuck_ —"

Fuck it. Hank lets go of the headboard and wraps his fist around the base of his dick. He gets in two pumps before Connor spreads his fingers flat over Hank's prostate and  _presses_.

Hank shouts. The orgasm rips out of him in one white-hot burst of release. He feels it in his goddamned toes. Connor shivers, swallows, and he's arching up off the bed too. His LED pulses red. Hank's way too sensitive and he needs to pull away, but Connor's grip is steel and Hank fucking  _can't_. It lasts a heartbeat. Connor settles back piece by piece, limb by limb, and finally eases his hands away from Hank.

Hank collapses next to him, boneless and panting.

Fuck. His thighs hurt.

Hank is a panting sweaty mess and he kinda wants to crawl into the shower and wash away all the grime, but he doesn't think his legs would support him right now. Instead he reaches blindly across the bed until he finds Connor's hand. Their fingers curl together. The softness of Connor's skin bleeds away to cool plastic and Hank squeezes his hand tighter, grins. When he looks over, Connor is on his side, and his eyes are so full of emotion Hank feels like he's been shot. Hank throws his arm over his own eyes to hide himself from it.  Connor keeps their hands together and doesn't reactivate his skin.

"I love you," Connor murmurs against Hank's skin.

Hank flushes, inhales sharply, and squeezes Connor's hand. "Yeah. Me too."

He feels Connor's smile where his face is pressed over Hank's heartbeat.

_________________________________________________

The morning after is fucking terrible. Just trying to roll out of bed shoots sharp pangs of agony through Hank's muscles, his legs sore and screaming at him to stay fucking put. His arms aren't much better, practically fucking jelly. Hank tries not to think about his back.

Connor rolls over, pecks his cheek, and glides out of bed. "If we'd used the sex wedge, you'd be fine."

Hank throws a pillow at him.

"I'll make coffee." Connor slips into a discarded pair of too-loose sweatpants. "We're due at work in forty-five minutes. Don't take too long getting out of bed."

"Fuck you."

Connor has the audacity to shoot him a wink before he disappears down the hallway.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Plastic piece of shit!" Damien Buckley - wanted on 13 counts of assault against androids and distribution of red ice - snarls spittle and throws a garbage bin across the alley to block Connor's progress.

Connor springs over it without missing a beat. Buckley's heart rate is skyrocketing. Fatigue is grabbing at his limbs, dragging him down. He's going to burn out. Connor isn't. Can't. Won't. There's twenty feet of space between them and Connor is eating it up with every step. His shoes snap thunder against the pavement. Buckley growls and pushes on. There's a bend in the alleyway, opening into the street. Connor’s diagnostics determine there’s an 83% chance that Buckley will take the route and adjusts his momentum accordingly. Buckley has 7 seconds before Connor reaches him and shoves him into the pavement.

Buckley turns the corner.

There’s a crack and a shout, and Buckley bounces back, grabbing his face to stop the sudden gush of blood pouring down his nose. He stumbles against the opposite wall, scrambling for balance. Blood scuffs the skin of his philtrum.

Hank strides around the corner, gun held at eye-level. Knuckles red.

"Hands in the air, motherfucker," Hank growls.

Buckley sneers. His eyes dart to the side. Connor calculates the chances of him making another run for it. It's low.

"I will fucking shoot you." Hank's eyes are steely.

The probability lowers to a negligible percentage.

Connor slows down to close the last few feet between them, drawing his own gun as he approaches. Hank can't shoot Buckley. He’s unarmed, not surrendering, but clearly not a threat any longer. The man is exhausted, adrenaline has wreaked havoc on his body and now he's left to lean against the building, heaving for breaths. He throws his arms in the air.

"Good choice." Hank grabs the guy's shoulder and whips him around. Buckley doesn't struggle as Hank slaps the handcuffs around his wrists and manhandles him away from the wall.

Connor recites the Miranda rights to him and sends the report over the DPD's channels. Together they herd Buckley to Hank's car and shove him into the backseat. Hank attaches his handcuffs to the door for good measure. The Oldsmobile isn't equipped to handle perps, but Connor dismissed the need for back-up once Buckley had been subdued. He's not harmless, but he's manageable.

They've been after him for weeks.

"You got him," Connor beams as he slides into the passenger seat.

"Yup," Hank revs the car to life," _We_ got him."

Satisfaction writes itself through Connor's code.

"I'm gonna rip your android apart, you stupid fucker," Buckley kicks the back of Connor's seat.

"Yeah, you keep talking." Hank shoots him a wry look through the rear-view mirror," Pretty sure we don't need any more evidence to convict you, but lay it on, buddy."

"You fucking _punched me_." Buckley kicks again.

Hank shrugs and turns on his music, drowning Buckley out with the dulcet melodies of KoRn. Connor stares at him. Hank's pulse is rapid, his cheeks flushed. He's running on the high of catching their suspect. He looks beautifully _alive_.

"What?" Hank catches him out of the corner of his eye.

Connor tilts his head just a little, brow arched. He feels… pleased. Pleased for catching Buckley, pleased for Hank’s good mood.  

Hank snorts. "I was a perfectly serviceable police officer before you came along, robocop." He chuffs his knuckles against Connor's cheek," Don't look at me like that."

Connor grins back. It's the dopey, cheesy grin that Hank says is terrible (but his elevated heart rate tells Connor Hank likes it anyway, which is the sort of thing that makes Connor's wires thrum in ways they weren't programmed to.) Connor _also_ notices the redness on Hank's knuckles. They're split, where he’d connected with Buckley’s face.

"You're bleeding," Connor's face falls.

"Huh?" Hank glances  at his hand.

His knuckles are red raw. The laceration isn't deep and the blood is already coagulating, drying red-brown to Hank's rough skin. Hank flexes his hand an micro-tears reopen, releasing millimeters of blood at a slow ooze. Alerts ping in Connor's vision.

Analyze. Analyze. Analyze.

"There's some tissues or something in the glove compartment," Hank peels the car out of the alleyway," We'll clean it up when we get to the station."

Connor pops the glove box and pulls out a handful of grubby McDonald's napkins. They look old and Connor can see the grime on them, sensors or no. There’s a layer of dust and greasy fingerprints smearing the edges, a scattering of sodium chloride. It’s not _clean_. Hank offers his hand to Connor. Connor takes his wrist and stares at the cuts. He absolutely does not want to rub a filthy napkin over them.

But he does want to taste them.

"Connor?" Hank chances a glance away from the road, brow furrowed.

Connor is aware that he's staring. He drags his eyes up to meet Hank's.

"For god's sakes," Hank shakes his head and wiggles his fingers in Connor's grip," Go ahead, you fucking weirdo."

Hank knows him so well.

Connor lifts Hank's hand to his mouth and touches his tongue to the abrasion. _AB positive. Slightly high cholesterol. Platelet count elevated for coagulation. Hank. Hank. Hank._

"Ugh, what the fuck!" the perp kicks the back of Connor's seat.

"Changed my mind, douchebag. You're gonna want to exercise that right to remain silent." Hank shoots him the finger and  cranks his music up.

Connor smiles.

 

_____________________________________________

 

Hank is sore. Connor sees it in the way he moves. A little hesitant in raising his arms too high, ginger about his steps, but his whole face is illuminated with a grin. He ruffles Sumo's fur as he struts passed him, heading for the hallway.

"I'm taking a shower,” he shoots over his shoulder as he disappears around the corner.

Connor flops on the couch and beckons Sumo to join him. _I’m_ taking a shower. No room for invitation there.

It's been a long week. Long hours, trying to track down Buckley with very little progress. They've come home tired and grumpy almost every night, with no room or energy for intimacy. Hank would grab something quick and cold from the fridge and toss himself on the couch, falling asleep with his head pillowed on Connor's lap as he pretends to watch reruns of old shows, and Connor pretends he isn't just watching Hank.

He’d hoped, with Buckley caught, that the evening might go better.

The shower starts and stops in record time. Hank pads back to the living room in a fresh shirt and boxers, his hair dripping dark patches down his back. He shoos Sumo off the couch and hunkers down next to Connor. Sumo boofs in disagreement, snuffling his face into Hank's knees, leaving behind great strings of drool. Connor laughs. Hank wrinkles his nose and pushes Sumo off. The dog reluctantly collapses at their feet, huffing. His life is hard.

Hank settles back into the sofa and shoots Connor a toothy grin," C'mere." He pats his thigh. The heat and dampness of the shower clings to him.

Connor is giddy to oblige. He sidles onto Hank's lap and pushes them flush together, knocking his brow against Hank's. He can smell him, soap, sweat, and winding cortisol levels. Connor settles his fingers against Hank's pulse point and counts the beats, the slightly irregular rhythm, how it picks up when Connor nuzzles against Hank's beard.

“Easy there,” Hank chuckles. His whole chest rumbles with the noise. Connor can feel the vibrations all through his body.

“I missed you.”

Hank catches his cheek and slots their mouths together.

Connor loves doing this. Loves tasting Hank. He's pretty sure he's got kissing down pat and Hank responds to his ministrations in an optimal fashion. Connor is greedy for his noises and the spike of oxytocin, testosterone, dopamine, as Connor licks into his mouth. He can feel Hank's pulse under his fingers. The slow swell of his cock against Connor's groin. Connor groans and shoves himself closer, pushing Hank back into the unforgiving cushions. Connor wants to bite down on Hank's bottom lip and taste his blood, get an accurate reading of his hormones. He doesn't. He tried that once and Hank nearly kicked him out of the bedroom for it.  Bites to Hank's _body_ on the other hand are fair game on days Hank is feeling quietly vulnerable.  Nothing above the collar or down the arms where someone might see, but hips? Belly? The soft swell of his chest? All perfectly serviceable places for Connor to sink his teeth into.

"Hey," Hank pulls back, face flushed, pupils dilated.

Connor kisses the corner of his mouth and settles in Hank's lap. One of Hank's hands come around to his waist to keep him propped up. Connor leans into it, and Hank rucks up his jacket to touch his skin. Connor registers _heat,_ reads Hank's fingerprints against his sensors.

Connor wishes he had fingerprints. That he could cover Hank in tiny residual marks that only Connor could see. It doesn't matter how hard Connor presses against his skin. There will never be marks that uniquely claim him as _Connor's._  Body modifications are becoming more popular. Perhaps, one day, Connor might be able to get fingerprints of his own, unique whorls in his skin. And he'd cover Hank in them. Fingerprints on his face, the back of his neck, over the leather of his jacket, pressed to the tight skin of his wrists. His chest, his hips, his belly. A walking goldmine of evidence that Connor has been here. Connor has touched him. So when Connor turns on his analysis software Hank would light up from Connor's marks.

As it is, the reverse is true. Connor wears Hank's fingerprints wherever he goes. Most of them he can't see, where Hank likes to cup his face and run his thumb at the corner of his lips, or squeeze the back of his neck reassuringly. Connor wants to hold hands more often. Hands are easy, he can always see his hands, and it's a delightful warm-electric feeling to see Hank's fingerprints curled around Connor's knuckles. Smudged and imprecise, but _there_. Residual oil from his skin resting in the tiny imperfections of Connor's dermis. He loses them every time he deactivates his skin, but Hank is there, he'll make more.

"Hey," Hank's voice is firmer.

Connor rakes his gaze back to Hank's eyes and arches an eyebrow," Hey?"

"Do you want to..." Hank colors. There's another spike in his pulse. He rubs the back of his neck,"... go install your dick for me?"

 _Yes._ Connor wants to scream. Yes, yes, yes of course he does. It's  been over a week and Connor's not greedy (he's greedy, he's so greedy), but Hank is high on success, flushed and pleased with himself, and Connor wants to pull him apart while he's drifting on a cloud of his own confidence.

Connor leans in to lick Hank's lips again and slides off his lap," I would have fucked you in the alleyway."

"Jesus," Hank colors more.

Connor watches his temperature rise. Follows the patterns of his blood, under his skin. Pupil dilation increased. Breathing short and rapid. Connor likes measuring Hank's arousal. He wants to taste the head of Hank's dick where cowper's fluid gathers against his foreskin, rich with all the secrets of Hank's body. There's already a damp spot forming on his boxers, where his cock strains the material.

"Yeah, none of that," Hank shakes his head, "Can't go stuffing your tongue down my throat in front of suspects."

"Got it," says Connor. The corner of his lips twitch. He has trouble controlling his facial expressions. Deviancy makes a lot of things troublesome to control. Connor reaches for Hank, fingers curled around his wrist, pressed against the bare skin. He wants to retract his skin and feel Hank with every one of his sensors. Interface with the bioelectricity humming against Hank's skin. The static of hairs brushing against his shirt. He tugs Hank to his feet.

They don't try to kiss or throw each other against the wall in the hallway. It’s almost disappointing, but Hank's still smiling, lop-sided, bright-eyed. They shoo Sumo back to the living room. Connor almost feel bad telling him off, but Hank won't play if Sumo's in the room. Banishment it is. Poor dog. Connor will take him for an extra long walk before the night is over.

Hank sits himself on the edge of the bed as Connor digs through the nightstand for his dick.

Connor sets the package tenderly on the covers and starts unbuttoning his jeans.

Hank catches his hand and picks up the box instead, shoving against Connor's chest," Do it in the bathroom? Just... give me 10 minutes, alright?"

Connor frowns. He sweeps the room - nothing is out of order, it takes less than a second to process the information. Nothing is out of order with Hank either.

"Trust me?" Hank's face is so open. So bright. He's not trying to hide anything. He's not having second thoughts.

"Of course," Connor takes the box and brushes his lips over Hank's," Ten minutes."

"Yup."

Connor shuts himself in the bathroom. The timer - 10:00, 09:59 - pops up in the corner of his vision. Ten minutes is an absolute eternity. It doesn't take ten minutes to calibrate his phallus, it doesn’t take ten minutes to do _anything_ worthwhile, unless Hank thinks he’s going to surprise Connor by working himself open on his fingers. Connor hopes he doesn’t, he’d much rather do it himself.  

He pulls his penis from the box and shucks his pants down to his thighs. The skin around his groin deactivates and the panels slide open. His slots his penis in place until the connector plates click and begin syncing.

>> Biocomponent #5633v attached. Install?

>> Y

>> Calibration beginning. 1%

Normally Hank is there with him, tracing his fingers down the length of Connor's dick, mouthing the plastic between Connor's hips. Humming electricity wherever he touches Connor. Sitting alone on the edge of the bathtub is considerably less enjoyable.

>> Calibration: 10%

>> Timer: 9:23

Connor might as well get undressed. Jacket, tie, shirt unbuttoned. Everything folded neatly (he has the time. Urgency thrums inside every piece of his coding, but he tamps it down). Shoes. Pants and briefs the rest of the way, until he’s standing naked, and _alone_ , in Hank’s chaotic bathroom.

>> Calibration: 30%

Connor can feel it now, cool air against his genitals.

>> Timer: 8:45

What could Hank possibly require ten _entire_ minutes for? If Hank is preparing himself, Connor’s going to pin him down to the mattress and let him know how terrible of an idea that was. He’ll lick Hank open until he's squirming and desperate, and so damned sorry for thinking Connor wouldn’t want to finger him. Connor doesn't much care for the taste of lube, but he'll put up with it to taste Hank. To make Hank beg (swear and curse and flail and threaten Connor with every colorful thought that pops into his head. Connor loves it). Connor pushing Hank passed the point of begging, to where Hank can only grunt and take it, legs trembling, cock swollen and leaking. All his inhibitions obliterated by Connor's fingers and tongue and, sometimes, his dick.

>> Calibration: 55%

>> Timer: 8:01

Time trickles along tediously slow. Taunting Connor.

Connor turns up his auditory sensitivity. It makes it more difficult to focus on visual stimuli like this, CPU concentrated on sounds, vibrations in the air. He can hear Sumo panting in the kitchen, his tail thudding against the floor. Cars passing the front of the house. And Hank... Connor can just make-out the erratic thudding of Hank's heartbeat two doors away. Hank muttering under his breath (swearing, of course. Connor smiles). And... cloth rubbing against cloth. The bed springs shifting.

>> Calibration: 89%

>> Timer: 6:12

"Hank!" Connor grips the edge of the tub," My calibrations are complete!"

>> Calibration: 99%

Close enough.

"Just a second!" Hank shouts back. His voice is hoarse.  

Connor doesn't dare pause the count down in case he tacks on additional seconds, but another pops up just below it, repeating 00:01, -00:01 over and over again while he listens to Hank shuffle around the bedroom. Hank would call him a little shit for being so literal, but that’s what Hank gets, for being a tease. Connor is going to remember every second that passes that _isn’t_ Hank’s predicted ‘Just a second.’

>> Calibration: 100%

Connor flattens his palm against his cock. There is pressure, the sensation of smoothness, and a temperature registration. It's pleasant. Sends a spiraling thread of vibration through his wires. A couple pulls and his dick begins to thicken, turgid and eager as the rest of him. It's a little longer than the average human penis and thicker than what Connor thinks is aesthetically pleasing for his body type, but he'd been careful to watch Hank's reaction when they browsed for potential candidates. Hank looked at _bigger_. Ridiculous. More than what Hank could comfortably take. Connor compromised on what he thought would be ideal for regular intercourse.

>> Timer: 4:45

>> Timer: 00:01, 00:00, -00:01

"Okay, I'm good!"

Connor dials his auditory sensors down to baseline and hurries across the hallway. His phallus bobs against his stomach. There is something slightly uncomfortable blazing just underneath his skin. Too hot and too cold, not quite an itch but it gives him the urge to claw at himself none-the-less.

Anticipation.

Connor turns the door knob slowly and eases into the room.

The anticipation feeling crackles and sparks, flooding his vision with a hot flash of sensory overload. Analytical points pop up all over his field of vision. Body suspended 45* angle. Pulse 105 BPM and rising. Pupil dilation. Hyperpnea.

"Connor, you wanna do something other than stare at me?"

Ridiculous. Impossible.

Connor dismisses most of the windows and commits the image to his memory banks instead.

Hank has dug the Liberator box out of Connor's side of the closet and pulled the ergonomic sex furniture free. The ramp sits on the center of the bed, with the smaller wedge pushed against it so the point of each piece overlapped 3.45 inches. And there was Hank, completely naked,  laying over top of them, absolutely breathtaking in his repose. Head resting on the wedge, damp hair strewn in disarray. One hand is flung above his head, the other pressed to the swell of his belly, fingers tapping nervously. The ramp angles Hank's body so his legs are elevated, ass in the air. One foot pressed flat to the bed, the other crossed over his knee. Despite the flush blotching his cheeks, his erection hasn't flagged much, still ruddy and curling across his upper thigh.

"Fine, fuck it. Stare. I don't give a shit." Hank snorts and breaks eye-contact," Like you fucking listen to me anyway."

Hank _had_ pulled the lube out. It sits against the side of the ramp, unopened.

"Hank," Connor croaks. Was his voice modulator glitching? Something sounded incorrect. He'd have to run diagnostics. Later.

Hank's lip twists up," You're a shit head. You better fucking do something about this because I'm starting to feel a little-"

Connor closes the distance between them before his 00:01 count down restarts. He dismisses it entirely, crushing his lips to Hank's. Hank chuckles against his mouth before Connor sweeps his tongue inside, cutting him off. Hank's mouth is warm and tastes faintly of fluoride and ranch dressing (wraps for lunch, better than a burger). Hank's pulse flutters, heartbeat rapid and loud between them. Running out of air. Connor pulls back. Hank gasps and clutches at the back of Connor's neck to pull him down for more.

Connor runs his fingers though Hank's hair and nuzzles into his beard. Hank's fingers turn soothing against Connor's neck. He's warm wherever they touch, body heat seeping against Connor's sensors, warming him in turn.

"Is it comfortable?" Connor leans back enough to meet Hank's eyes.

Hank's face scrunches up. He doesn't want to answer the question, and that tells Connor everything he needs to know. Hank continues anyway, dragging the words out of his mouth as if they're personally offensive," It's different. Got all my blood rushing to the wrong part of my body, though."

Connor slides his hand through the hair on Hank's chest, his belly, fingernails carding through the thick thatch of hair at his groin. Hank's cock twitches against his palm, hot and hard. Connor arches an eyebrow, smugness stretching his lips.

"We don't have to use both pieces, if you don’t like it," Connor circles his hand around Hank's cock, just resting there, feeling his pulse jump.

"Then why'd you buy them?" Hank doesn't try to move off the ramp, though. He spreads his legs and rolls into Connor's fist. It’s all very gratifying. Connor wants to burst with glee.

"Versatility," Connor shifts himself across the mattress until his knees are pressed to the back of the ramp, sidling in between Hank's calves," A greater range of options. And I didn't believe the wedge offered optimal elevation for eating you out." He says it deadpan, monotone. _Robotic_. Reciting facts. Dirty words delivered succinctly.

Hank's pupils dilate rapidly. His cock jerks in Connor's hand.

"Would you like that, Hank?" Connor leans over him, spreading Hank's thighs so he'll fit between them. Hank is sometimes uncomfortable with how young and slim Connor's design is ("Makes me feel like a dirty old man, you damned roomba, put a fucking shirt on."), but Connor's grateful for it, because he fits so well between Hank's legs.

"Would you like me to open you up with my tongue?" Connor cocks his head, brow arched. He slides his fingers up the length of Hank's cock and gathers the pre-ejaculate fluid building at his glans.

"You're so fucking dirty, Connor," Hank squirms," Knock yourself out."

Connor brings his fingers to Hank's face, spreads the fluid over Hank's beard. Hank opens his mouth and Connor pops them in, shivering as Hank's lips close over him. He feels every bump of Hank's papillae, the thickness of his saliva.  Hank's tongue moves between his fingers and sparks fire through Connor's wiring. Connor doesn’t know how to explain to Hank how much he _feels_ this. If he could, he’d keep his fingers on or in some part of Hank’s body every minute of the day, record every reaction, every adjustment in Hank’s physiology. Fill up his memory banks with nothing but _Hank._ It’s gross misuse of technology built to hack through crime scenes, but Hank is Connor’s favorite thing to analyse.  

Connor’s fairly certain Hank would have difficulty with that information.

Connor pops his fingers free and dives over Hank to kiss him. He tastes like salt. Their tongues roll against each other until the taste is gone and Hank is shaking for need of air. Connor pulls away and Hank clutches at him while he gulps oxygen.

Connor wiggles down and presses a kiss to Hank's thigh. He curls his arms around Hank's legs to keep him propped up, open," Are you comfortable?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Hank wets his lips, eyes glassy," It's weird, but I'm good."

Connor hums approval and buries his face between Hank's thighs. Hank barks a strangled noise at the first swipe of Connor's tongue. His whole body tightens and snaps back. Hank's fingers dig into Connor's hair and he _laughs_. It's breathless and perfect. Connor looks up to catch Hank's eyes. Hank is grinning, teeth flashing, pleased and flushed pink. Connor doesn't feel warmth, exactly, but there's a pleasant glowing sensation bleeding out from his core. Connor presses his tongue flat to Hank's rim and Hank's thighs tense and quiver around him.

"Fuck, you're perfect, Connor." Hank's voice is ragged, muffled against his arm.

Connor slips his tongue inside him and Hank's pleased laughter trails off into a groan.

One day Connor would like to convince Hank to let him do this for hours. Bent over the ramp, buttocks in the air, erection crammed against the microfiber. Connor will hold him still and lick him until he's a sobbing mess. Rimming is moderately pleasurable for Hank ( "It tickles and it's wet. Mostly gets my engine going because I know what's coming next. But you have at it, Connor, if that's what gets you off. You just better fuck me afterwards."), but Connor loves it. Loves it, especially, when he's opened Hank up with his fingers or cock and Hank is loose and raw from intercourse and tastes faintly of _Connor_. Hank can't take it for long post-sex, but he never says no when Connor wants to indulge.

Connor reaches for the lube and clicks the cap. Hank's heart rate increases. Connor trails kisses down Hank's thighs as he coats his fingers, friction warming the lube where Connor's body temperature is insufficient. There's slight resistance when Connor slides the first finger into Hank. Hank has tensed up and the muscle of his hole tugs at Connor's finger. He's so soft, inside, and the heat is perfect. Scorching. Connor can feel _everything_. Hank clenches down as his hips cant up. The noise that rocks out of him is sinful. Connor commits it to his memory banks. (He has terabytes of audiofiles labelled Hank Hank Hank.)

Connor loves the way Hank writhes against his fingers, the uneven staccato beats of his pulse as he bears down.  Hank is so _alive_ under him, thrumming vivacity, not trying to smother his reactions as Connor curls his fingers up and deep. He's a livewire. Squirming and gripping the sheets, clenching his knuckles around the edge of the wedge. He pushes greedily against Connor's fingers, hips jerking in perfect little circles, chasing his own pleasure.

Connor loves him like this. Unabashed. Unashamed. He wants Hank to be like this _all the time_.

"That's so good," Hank growls, grinding down when Connor slips another finger into him. His cock is drooling precum down his thigh. "Connor, fuck me. Fuck me, _please_."

"Not yet."

Hank picked Connor's dick, and it's entirely his fault if Connor needs to spend inordinate amounts of time preparing him. Hank tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but Connor slides his other hand down to Hank's chest and pushes him back. He keeps up the pressure, pinning Hank in place, and Hank's dick throbs. Connor cocks his head and tries to keep the smile off his lips.

Hank _snarls_. He digs his heels into Connor's back and tries to pull him forward. Connor holds steady. He twists his fingers and finally slips a third into Hank, opening. Rubbing. Pulling. Hank is flushed red from his cheeks to his naval. His heartbeat skyrockets.

"Connor, I _need-"_ Hank's cut off by a shout, Connor's fingers brushing against his prostate.

"What?" breathes Connor, eyebrow arched.

" _You."_

Oh. Connor wants to plunge into him right then, immediately. Give him what he wants, because hearing that makes his metaphorical heart swell.

Connor's face scrunches up as he calculates the stretch of Hank's asshole.

"I'm good, I'm good," Hank pants. He curls a fist in his own hair and pulls," I can take it."

He can, Connor decides. He'll feel it in the morning. He might regret it. Connor doesn't want to take his chances that Hank might associate the ergonomic furniture with discomfort, though. It's a difficult decision to make, because Hank is so desperate for it. If Connor could bruise, Hank's heels would be leaving marks all down his back.

" _Please_ ," Hank grits between clenched teeth," Jesus fucking christ, _Connor_ , give me your goddamn dick."

Connor presses his thumb to Hank's lips. Hank takes it automatically, running his tongue along the length of it. He breathes heavily out of his nose to make up for the lack of air, sucking hard. He's tracing _fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me_ against the digit. Every flick of his tongue sends a desperate spark up Connor’s sensors. He doesn’t want to wait either, but he has better self-control than Hank. Connor rubs the inside of Hank's cheek and pulls his thumb out with a pop.

Connor slips his fingers out and Hank falls boneless against the ramp, his chest heaving. He blinks up at the ceiling, mouth open, sweat beading on his brow. Connor wants to lick it off. Instead, he takes hold of Hank's hips and jerks him forward until he's at the edge of the ramp.

Hank laughs, breathlessly," Fuck, you're strong."

"You like it," Connor steadies himself and presses the head of his cock to Hank's opening - warm, wet, _eager._

Hank barks breathless laughter, grinding down," Fucking-A."

Connor sinks into him. Hank stops breathing at the first push, groaning low and deep in his chest. Connor covers his ribs with one hand to feel it, feel Hank's noises building inside him as he struggles to get his breathing under control. Connor holds himself still, barely an inch inside of Hank, and waits for him to relax. It doesn't take Hank long, and he's digging his feet into Connor again, urging him forward. Asking for _more._ They sink together slow and easy, while Connor concentrates on feeling Hank's pulse point deep inside. Connor's hips fall flush against Hank's ass and they both tremble.

"H-holy fuck," Hank gasps.

Connor cups Hank's cheek, eyes soft.

The first thrust is slow and tentative. Connor pulls out until he's nearly gone and Hank is writhing, begging, back arching at the empty feeling he leaves behind. Connor sinks back in. Slow, precise, careful. He rocks into Hank. He's big enough that he knows Hank can feel the stretch, the burn, every inch of Connor opening him up and _keeping_ him open. Hank’s thighs clench around Connor's middle, holding him close, and Connor's happy to just move his hips in little circles, grinding into Hank. Hanks turns his head and kisses Connor's palm.

Hank tries to push back but he doesn't have a lot of traction on the ramp. Gravity is working against him.

“Connor, fuck. _Please_.” Hank is a broken, garbled mess of frustration.

Connor shifts, adjusts the angle so every brush of his cock drags along Hank's prostate, and keeps his pace the same.

Hank's head snaps back. Connor drives breathless little grunts from his lungs. Hank's throat bobs wordlessly. Sweat blooms all across his skin. Connor shuts his eyes, dizzy with information. He never once stops the easy roll of his hips, but he slides his fingers against Hank's lips and lets his skin melt away. Hank's tongue darts out to taste them. Shock surges through Connor's systems. Sensors light up. Connor's hips stutter. Hank forces his hand away from the bed and grips Connor's wrist, shoving Connor's fingers into his mouth.

"Oh," Connor has to _stop._ His fans whir so loudly they drown out Hank's wet moans. "Oh, _oh_." He can feel it, Hank's tongue, Hank's mouth,  so precisely. Electricity hums between them. It’s a building cacophony of interference surging from the points of his fingers deep, deep down into his processes.

Connor starts up again, just as slow and steady as before, drawing out further, sinking in deep. The noises Hank makes are sloppy. Desperate. Connor shoves his fingers deeper and Hank tongues the interface pads. There's a jolt and reams of information pouring across Connor's vision. He presses harder. Hank obliges with firm strokes all down the length of his fingers.

Connor feels Hank's orgasm building in the tightness of his body, the rise and fall of his chest, the deep blush bruising red-pink patches all down his body. Hot spots where he brushes against Connor. He feels like a livewire under Connor's hands. Thunderstorms building in the atmosphere. Connor draws his fingers from Hank's mouth and cups his face, keeps him steady. Eyes locked. Hank's pupils flutter all over Connor's face, trying desperately to cut the connection. To hide himself.

Hank won't come if Connor doesn't touch his dick. Hank knows this. Connor knows this. And If Connor lets go of Hank's face, Hank will look away.

"Please," says Connor, breathless and needy," Let me watch."

Hank breathes out a long huff of air. Connor feels it in little quivers where they're pressed together, shaky and honest. Hank can't say yes, he won't say yes. But Connor catches his gaze, and he trusts him.

Connor let's go of his cheek and slides his hand between their bodies. The weight and warmth of Hank's cock is lovely in his hand. He closes his fist around it. Moves his hips flush against Hank's, every beat slow, perfect, measured. Hank's pupils are blown wide. Pitch black with tiny blue halos. _Hank's LED_. Connor strokes him again and Hank falls apart.

Connor crashes into his analysis software to chase Hank's release.

>> RECONSTRUCT SCENARIO

Hank's muscles clench under his gut. Draw taut. It makes his body tight and unyielding. He's squeezing down all around Connor's dick and Connor feels _pressure pressure pressure_  heat.  

>> RECONSTRUCT SCENARIO

Hank's heartbeat picks up. 115 bpm. 120. 125. Plateaus at a rapid thrum of 135 bpm, slightly irregular. Completely perfect.

>> RECONSTRUCT SCENARIO

Hank's head falls back. His eyelids flutter but he tries, tries so hard, to keep his eyes open, so Connor can watch him.

Everywhere inside Hank flutters and contracts against Connor's dick. Connor feels Hank's cock pulse in his hand. Involuntary. Everything is automated now.

>> RECONSTRUCT SCENARIO

>> WARNING: CPU USAGE 89%. SHUT DOWN NON-ESSENTIAL PROCESSES FOR OPTIMAL FUNCTIONALITY

Ejaculate erupts warm and wet between their bodies.

Hank shouts Connor's name. His head snaps back. He's electric. Shocked by lightning. Perfect.

>> RECONSTRUCT SCENARIO

>> WARNING: CPU USAGE 99.9%. SHUT DOWN NON-ESSENTIAL PROCESSES TO PREVENT RESET. Y/N?

>> N_

>> RECONSTRUCTION NOT RECOMMENDED. END PROGRAM. Y/N?

>> N_

>> RECONSTRUCT SCENARIO

Hank-

"Hank!" Connor's voice is a mess of garbled subvocals, as much from his body as from his mouth. His system turns brilliant blue, commands garbled and corrupt string of nonsense code. Prompts flash across his eyes he can't control or dismiss. Everything lags. Crashes.

Connor shivers through the reboot, blinking rapidly as the warning boxes glitch out of view and reveal Hank's flushed and panting face. Hank's hands are on Connor's back, stroking, warm-dry-soothing.

Connor smiles.

"Hey," says Hank.

“Hey,” Connor pushes Hank's hair out of his face," I love you."

"You're a goddamned sap," Hank snorts, but he squeezes Connor's sides as he says it," And you're heavy. You wanna get off of me?"

"Not particularly."

"Brat," Hank taps Connor's thigh with the back of his foot," C'mon, push over."

Connor slinks off Hank with great reluctance. They both shiver as Connor pulls out, Hank squeezes down like he's trying to swallow Connor back up again. Connor presses a kiss to Hank's chest and eases the ramp out from under him. Hank settles back against the bed and his eyebrows shoot up, surprised.

"How was it? The wedge?" Connor's LED cycles yellow. Processing. Curious.

Hank frowns. He stretches his legs, one at a time, rolling his shoulders. Testing whatever strain was put on his muscles. Hopefully minimal.

"Pretty good, actually. Thighs are a little sore, but no funky furniture is going to help that."

"We could take yoga classes together," Connor sets the ramp on the floor and flops down next to Hank, curling under his arm," To improve your flexibility."

"Jesus christ, Connor," Hank pulls him in for a kiss," Shut the fuck up."

Connor does, but only so he can taste the backs of Hank's teeth.

_____________________________________

 

“I swear, Connor, if you don’t wipe that look off your face…” Hank trails off, his face scrunched with annoyance.

Connor grins and sets his chin on top of his forearms, balanced over the back of the couch. Watching Hank rummage around the kitchen for something half-decently healthy to make for breakfast. It’s impossible not to watch him. He steels himself every time he starts to bend down for a pot or a pan in the lower drawers, and _every single time_ his face lights up with surprise when he realizes there’s no ache in his back, no strain in his thighs. Connor knows _exactly_ what’s going through his head.

He’s recording the whole thing. It’s ridiculously amusing. The RK900s and Chen would find it hilarious.

“Do you want me to make you breakfast?” Connor says, in lieu of a proper response.

Hank snorts and turns back to his rummaging,” I’d like to be able to put _some_ salt in my eggs, thanks.”

“No yolks.”

“You’re a goddamned nanny bot.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah,” Hank pauses. He turns fully to face Connor, and the annoyance has melted away. Hank’s eyes are so _bright_. “Yeah, I do.”

Connor settles back on the couch, satisfied. Sumo nudges his hand and he’s happy to oblige him with rough scratches behind the ears.

“And you loved the sex wedge,” Connor says, fingers deep in Sumo’s hair.

Hank settles a pan on the stove, a little louder than necessary,” I didn’t _not_ like the sex wedge.”

“ _Lieutenant._ ”

“It was fantastic and I’m glad you bought it, but please for the love of god, let’s not talk about it, alright?”

“Alright.” Connor waits a beat. He listens for Hank pull out the carton of eggs and start cracking them. “I’ve already ordered the black label conversion kit.”

“The what now?”

 _Tap. Tap. Crack_ . _Sizzle_.

Hank is reaching for the salt. Connor doesn’t have to look, to know.

“Handcuffs,” says Connor.

Something slips and crashes. There’s a loud thunk. Hank swears.

Connor peers over his shoulder,” Are you sure you wouldn’t like some help?”

“You’re gonna fucking kill me, Connor.”

Connor whispers an apology to Sumo and pushes off the couch. Hank is scraping his eggs (yolks and all, Connor notes) into the bin. He’s spilled salt all over the pan. Connor catches his arms and presses his face to Hank’s shoulder blades, leaning into his warmth.

“That’s exactly the opposite of what I’m trying to do,” he murmurs against Hank’s shirt.

Hank’s shoulders fall. He leans back into Connor, tiny little micromovements Hank probably isn’t even aware of. He sets the pan on the counter and turns, pulling Connor against his chest. Hank’s beard scruffs against Connor’s forehead, and it’s exactly the right sort of tickle.

“Are you gonna make me breakfast, then?”

“Turkey bacon and spinach omelettes. I’ve been practicing. You’ll love it.”

Hank’s chest jumps with a quiet chuckle. His arms tighten around Connor, thick, warm, _strong_. “Alright,” he grumbles, ”I trust you.”


End file.
